


Our History (We Made it Happen)

by WerewolvesAreReal



Category: Temeraire - Naomi Novik
Genre: 19th-Century Sexual Revolution?, Because Dragons, Domestic, Fluff, M/M, Post-Series, Romance, Scotland, also
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-08-25
Packaged: 2018-08-11 01:50:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7870891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WerewolvesAreReal/pseuds/WerewolvesAreReal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two dragons create a scandal in Britain, life with Tharkay is wonderful – and also a bit scandalous – and Laurence is apparently destined to be a political symbol for the rest of his life. What kind of symbol, though, is debatable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our History (We Made it Happen)

“It is entirely unacceptable!”

“I hardly see why,” Perscitia protests.

“The public outrage – the spectacle – they could have scandalized any number of children - “

“ _Were_ there any children about?”

Lord Attebury puffs up. “That is quite beside the point.”

“I would not say so if your argument hinges on the presence of children – although,” Perscitia adds, “I do not see what children have to do with the matter at all. It is not at though Minnow and Bellusa can make any eggs.”

Attebury sputters.

“Can I ask why you came here,” asks Laurence with the tired demeanor of one who doesn't really expect an answer.

Temeraire's pavilion is coming along quite well. It is hardly unusual to see dragons of all shapes and sizes stopping by to speak with him about this issue or that. Some of the callers come with social visits in mind, but Temeraire's status in Parliament also gives him a certain allure. Many – like Perscitia today – come by the clearing to broach political topics.

Of course, Temeraire is currently helping Tharkay's tenants clear a fallen bridge. So Laurence, unfortunately, is the only one here to listen to Perscitia's complaints.

“It is not proper,” says Attebury, and swallows suddenly. Some politicians still have a habit of abruptly recalling that they are, in fact, arguing with a many-ton beast that could swallow them whole – not that any British dragon would do such a thing. “It is not proper,” he repeats. “We cannot create an exception for dragons – it sets a poor example for the whole of the nation. Indeed, it is worse for a dragon to commit such crimes, as the – scale – of the act makes it impossible to ignore.”

“Well that just seems rude,” says Perscitia severely.

Attebury turns to Laurence. “Captain,” he appeals. Laurence shifts from one foot to another; he is, technically, retired. “Surely you must understand – I agreed to come here in the hopes that you could help the creatures see reason - “

“Sir,” he says. “If I may, I think the example in this instance must only serve to show you that these intimate acts were perfectly natural. A dragon has no concept that there is anything wrong with their urges, and indeed I do not see how any instinctual behaviors can be condemned, when clearly those inclinations were created without any outside interference.” Unlike dragon-breeding, he thinks but does not say; he rather disapproves of arranged breedings more than this, even if the dragons themselves have never seemed to mind.

“I do not understand how, as a Christian man, you could defend such a thing,” Attebury says. “And such generalizations - “ the lord stops abruptly.

“Sir?” Laurence turns to follow Attebury's gaze.

Tharkay is winding his way over to the Pavilion, his walk slow and easy. He's wearing a fine light coat that Laurence has often noted for its ability to throw his eyes into striking relief, and he carries an entirely unnecessary diamond-tipped cane – it makes pretentious lords grit their teeth and never fails to please dragons. For a moment Laurence wonders if Attebury is one of the number offended by Tharkay's recent inclusion into the aristocracy.

“You live here on Mr. Tharkay's good graces, do you not?” Attebury says abruptly. “And that dragon too; a kindness, I am sure. A prodigious favor for anyone. Well, I do see. I do see.”

Laurence frowns. “Sir?”

Attebury shakes his head. “Get me away from here,” he demands of Perscitia. “I have business, more important business than the affairs of amorous dragons – we can discuss this later.”

“You could at least be a bit more polite,” she sniffs, but extends her leg nevertheless. A moment later the pair rise into the sky. Laurence stares after them with a very slow sense of understanding.

Tharkay finally reaches the Pavilion. “Temeraire has sent a message saying he will be late. Has something happened?”

“Possibly,” Laurence sighs. “ - I daresay we will know as soon as anyone else, if so.”

* * *

 

The atmosphere of Tharkay's Scotland manor is wholly different from any other place Laurence has known. There are, by necessity, servants; any building with some three-dozen rooms can scarcely be kept in good repair without help. But these two or three workers are quiet and unobtrusive, by incident or design Laurence does not know. In the mornings he rises and fetches his food with Tharkay, and they go out to Temeraire's Pavilion to break their fast as the sun rises on its endless path.

Temeraire has employed his own cooks – he declined Tharkay's offer of finding men, explaining that he enjoys employing people who will 'certainly remain, and be his'. Indeed, he eyes the workers with a certain satisfaction today as he compliments them on the flavor of the fatted cow.

Today, though, Laurence has some news. He clears his throat while Tharkay finishes his own breakfast. “I have accepted a position with the Foreign Office – a diplomatic position,” he says, belatedly. His face heats without reason. Tharkay is putting down his fork, no hint of an expression on his face.

“Oh, how excellent!” Temeraire exclaims. “That sounds quite interesting, Laurence.”

Tharkay, though, eyes him. “Are you not concerned that the Office means to abuse your status as a prince, Laurence? You cannot negotiate with the Chinese on an even footing.”

Of course Laurence has thought of this already. “Oh, they _would_ try to trick you,” Temeraire says, already outraged; Laurence forestalls him.

“I have made it a condition that I will not deal with China, nor any of their protectorates,” he says. “I believe they intend to reach out to Japan in the upcoming months; France has, and it would not do for us to fall behind in diplomatic relations.”

“I daresay Japan will be rethinking that particular alliance,” Tharkay comments. “ - Still, are you certain about this?”

“Very much so.”

“Oh, and where will you be?” Temeraire realizes. Anticipating the Celestial's reaction, Laurence replies that there is a subsection of the embassy in Edinburgh, and Temeraire exclaims, “Then we may fly to the city together, Laurence!” Temeraire stops by the city each morning for any news regarding his Parliamentary duties; he visits London regularly, but he will only stay spend his nights in nearby Dover when Parliament sits in session.

“I do look forward to it,” Laurence says. “And to some activity.”

“Yes,” Tharkay murmurs, still frowning a little; “I suppose you must have been bored...”

In truth Laurence has found himself surprisingly content on the pleasant estate, surrounded by good company and long quiet; but he answers, “We are neither of us accustomed to inactivity, Tenzing.”

Tharkay inclines his head mutely.

Laurence hesitates for just one moment. A question rises to his throat; but then Temeraire leans down further, and the moment passes. “Oh, do tell me more,” the dragon says...

* * *

 

“ - and then when we go to London next week,” Temeraire adds, “we can tell Perscitia all about how you are important again, and not a useless figurehead-prince at all - “

Laurence ignores the last remark in favor of asking, “We are going to London?”

“Yes, of course – oh. Did I not mention?” Temeraire seems unabashed. “A courier came from your brother – by _horse.”_ Temeraire seems slightly affronted. “I do not know why he did not ask one of the dragons around his property to deliver it. I will have a word with them. In any case he has asked us to Nottinghamshire for a night, and I thought we might stop by London too. Perscitia has been raging about Wellington and how very stupid he is being toward his wife, so perhaps she wants us to help with that."

“I do not think he nor Lady Catherine would appreciate the interference,” Laurence interjects hastily. Only a dragon would consider a 'stop' by London, from Nottinghamshire, a worthwhile endeavor.

“Lord Wellington does not appreciate many of the good things we have done, but of course things always work out better once we have done them,” Temeraire replies reasonably. So Laurence sighs as the dragon slants himself down toward the glowing city of Edinburgh, the distant pinpricks of houses shining steadily larger as they approach.

Temeraire deposits him down the block from the Foreign Office and departs without ceremony. Laurence pauses to adjust his windswept coat – ignoring stares from a passing gentleman, frozen up the street and clutching a briefcase – and walks up into the building.

A woman with a deep red blush coloring her cheeks sweeps past him with a glower. She has to struggle momentarily to get her overlarge dress through the entrance; Laurence steps aside and holds the door open, awkwardly, as she huffs and finally yanks through gripping swathes of fabric.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” says a pleasant voice from the desk nearby. “Have an excellent morning - “ as soon as the woman is out of sight the young man sighs and leans back, shaking his head.

Laurence approaches. “Excuse me,” he begins.

“Oh, not again,” the man says. “If you are here about that business with the wool trade, the deal is _done,_ and - “

“I beg your pardon,” Laurence interjects firmly. “My name is William Laurence, and - “

At once the man springs to his feet.

“Mr. Laurence! Prince Laurence!” Laurence opens his mouth to object. “Yes, of course, of course, right this way, please, my apologies - “

Exasperated, Laurence follows behind the fumbling assistant. “The director will be with you in a moment – an honor, Sir - “ The aide leads Laurence into a neat office where he sits, tugging at the unaccustomed civilian suit. “Quite an honor!” With a bow the man disappears back through the door. Laurence stares for a moment, sighs, and leans back. He only has a moment to gaze around the room before the door opens again and he rises.

“Prince Laurence! How very good to meet you.” An older gentleman wearing a short white wig shakes his hand.

“Just Mr. Laurence please,” he repeats tiredly. “And you are - ?”

“Clifford Longstaff, and I suspect we shall be working together very much,” which Laurence thinks is a subtle way of saying that Longstaff will be giving him directions.

“I am afraid that my exact duties have not been clearly defined.”

“Oh, that is no mistake, Mr. Laurence. Your history with the Japanese will be invaluable to us; however, I'm afraid that we would still have you better versed in the language and culture before working with anyone directly.” Longstaff gestures at the desk. It is covered in neat piles of papers. Scrolls with slanting calligraphy – a bit reminiscent of the Chinese style, but plainly not the same – cover one side. The other half is piled with slim books. “You would do us a good service by translating those books, and I daresay by that point you'll be much better prepared to deal with the embassy when they arrive.”

Laurence sighs a little. But no one has said that this position would be pleasant. “Very well then.”

“Excellent.” Longstaff picks up the thickest book – a reddish monster nearly a foot long. “I would suggest taking notes, Sir.”

* * *

 

“You are becoming a regular polyglot,” Tharkay says, leaning against the wall.“How many languages is this, now?”

“I do not like to think about it,” Lauerence admits. He taps one of the main books spread out on the parlor table. French, Mandarin, Durzagh, and he can manage a little Russian now - “I dearly hope it will not take so long to learn as the Chinese language.”

“It seems odd that they would request a diplomat with no skill in the language.”

Laurence has had the same misgivings, but he only says, “Tenzing - “

Tharkay raises his hands. “But that is your business,” he says innocently. “If you can be spared from the books for a minute, however...”

“Yes, I think so,” Laurence says quickly. Tharkay's lips twitch suspiciously. He offers a mocking bow and gestures for Laurence to follow him.

They proceed down to a small room that Laurence barely recognizes – hardly unusual; he often keeps to his own quarters, the dining area, and the library (for those times when Temeraire is being exceptionally finicky). Tharkay seems to have made some new use of the space. Within the last few weeks maps and scrolls have come to cover every spare inch of desk space, neatly lining the surfaces with the sort of pragmatic orderliness which Laurence will always associate with Tharkay. A compass and quill rest on one corner of the largest table, centerfold in the room, and his chest gives a painful lurch. “You are planning a trip?”

“Presently, no; but I am sure we will have the opportunity for travel eventually, and I know that Temeraire has always wanted to see the Americas. That is not what I wanted to discuss, however - “

From underneath the chair he pulls out a box. Laurence accepts it, still struggling to place his feelings, and opens the lid.

It occurs to Laurence, irreverently but not without cause, that it has been an age since someone handed him a good coat unadorned by gems or gold or piping. He touches one sleeve of the fabric with bewilderment. Deep blue; it has been years since he's worn blue.

“Why - ?”

Tharkay shrugs as though the matter is inconsequential. It isn't. “You don't have much suited to civilian life. Good finery, to be sure, and uniforms, but are we not due for a change?”

Laurence is silent for a moment. “You have been more than generous to have us here in your home,” he begins, “But Tenzing, I cannot accept a gift for which I can offer no possible compensation - “

“I will stop you,” Tharkay says flatly. “If you consider yourself a guest, Will, I would disabuse you of the notion now. We have been through more than that; do not do me the disservice of thinking anything less. And as for _this_ pittance - “ he gestures, “I can have no better compensation than your company, and your friendship, which I hope I presume to hold.”

“Always, of course - ”

“Then you will do me a favor and stop insulting me.” Tharkay says. “Put it away now – perhaps we could discuss travel after all. What are your thoughts on Egypt?”

* * *

 

Laurence thinks about Tharkay's gift for longer, perhaps, than the occasion seems to warrant. But he cannot believe Tharkay does anything without reason, without deliberation. Does he think that Laurence intends to go somewhere – is the gift a symbol, some strange entreaty to stay? But, no, he is missing something.

And in any case, he and Temeraire have not indicated any desire to leave; the next day he walks outside with Tharkay while Temeraire shows them new plans for his Pavilion.

“So you see, they are like any chandeliers, but through this mechanism I can light them myself – it is very clever, I think.” Temeraire holds the bark-bound parchment, deliberately made for draconic claws, with utmost delicacy as he presents a merchant's neat illustrations. “It will make parties much easier at night, though I do quite like the Chinese lanterns, too.” He tucks away the parchment with a satisfied air.

Tharkay is watching the dragon fondly, a faint smile curving at the edges of his lips.

“Laurence,” Temeraire says, “You said earlier we were going to read – did you bring the book?”

Tharkay turns toward him. Laurence blinks.

“Yes, my dear – of course.” He finds it and joins Temeraire.

They sit outside in the sun. There is no need for the direct shelter of the Pavilion, on its high slope, in this weather. Temeraire sinks against the grass and Laurence rests against his foreleg while he reads. It is an easy pattern, a familiar habit. He has been in this same curved hollow a thousand times before, and the same words of Temeraire's beloved _Principia Mathematica_ fall away without a thought, even if Laurence understands almost none of them.

But Laurence declares himself finished at midday – to Temeraire's great disappointment – and when he stands, shoulders aching, he notices that Tharkay is still sitting by a nearby tree. He cannot help but think it odd that the man has not ventured closer until he notices a quill and rolls of parchment scattered around the ground. “Are you writing letters?” he asks, surprised into tactlessness.

Tharkay glances at him and begins to gather his supplies. “No,” he says, and for a moment Laurence thinks that will be his only reply. Then after a moment Tharkay walks closer. He hands over the topmost parchment.

“Why, Tenzing, I had no idea you were an artist,” Laurence exclaims in genuine pleasure. The sketch depicts he and Temeraire, both with their heads bent over the book; Temeraire's huge body wraps around Laurence in the noontime light.

“I am not. It is one skill of many.”

“You do yourself no credit. Look, Temeraire.” Too late Laurence thinks that perhaps Tharkay would not want the picture shared, but Temeraire is already leaning closer with interest. Then the Celestial huffs.

“Why, it is all wrong,” he reproaches.

Laurence exclaims, “Temeraire!”, and Tharkay stiffens.

“Well it _is,”_ Temeraire maintains. “Look, there is Laurence, and myself, and the hill nearby; but where are you, Tharkay? The picture is not complete without you.”

Laurence hesitates. He runs his hand over the edge of the parchment, the empty spaces. “...You are quite right,” he admits lowly, and risks a glance up.

There is an interminable pause. “Then I must correct it, I suppose,” Tharkay says stiffly. After a beat he takes back the parchment and joins Laurence on the grass.

When nothing else is forthcoming Laurence picks up his book and starts reading again after all.

* * *

 

“I understand,” Laurence says patiently. “However, I have heard Mr. Wilthorpe say that the Japanese delegation are already in Edinburgh. Surely it would only be appropriate to greet them and - “

“No, no, Mr. Laurence – Mr. Laurence, you are in no way prepared - “

“And I will not be prepared,” Laurence says, “If you refrain from telling me anything at all about the embassy, or the delegation, or their purpose here.”

“All in good time,” Longstaff assures. Laurence narrows his eyes. “I am sorry, Mr. Laurence, but we _are_ busy - “

Laurence bows his head stiffly as Longstaff hurries away. The office is silent. As far as Laurence can tell no one at all has visited today.

And, as though just to contradict the thought, he hears a sudden commotion in the hall;

“Miss Natasza, I must continue to insist, we can offer you no assistance - “

“And as no one else can offer me assistance, either, I will continue to come back until you find me someone who _can!”_ A shrill voice fumes. Laurence frowns at the door, curious but unwilling to pry, until he hears:

“Miss Natasza – I am afraid none of our staff are available to speak with you, and we really _are_ quite busy - “

A bit exasperated, Laurence shuts yet another Japanese book on etiquette and goes into the hallway. “I beg your pardon,” he calls. He's startled to see the familiar, red-faced woman from a few days before. “Lady Natasza? Perhaps I could be of assistance?”

“ _Thank_ you,” she snaps, and marches right past the front clerk.

The man is glaring at him. Laurence frowns, again, and follows Natasza back into his office.

She speaks without waiting for him. “I will not be ignored again, Mr. - oh, whoever you are,” she says. “I do not _care_ what your policies are, or what your superiors have said, I know very well when I am being ignored.”

“Perhaps you could begin by telling me why you are being ignored,” he suggests. “I confess I have received no orders whatsoever regarding your situation. In fact I am wholly ignorant; I must ask why you are here.”

“I am here about an inheritance – a land dispute.”

“This is hardly the place for land disputes,” Laurence points out gently.

“It was not I who took the matter to your office, Mister - ?”

“Laurence.”

“Mr. Laurence. I have been continually directed here. My mother was Polish, and that is being used as an excuse – a very thin excuse – for men to take my father's lands away from me. Until the Foreign Office supports my claim you can continue to expect my presence.”

Laurence hesitates. Taps his desk.

“I doubt the Foreign Office will help you,” he admits. Natasza opens her mouth indignantly. “However, if I may suggest several very excellent solicitors, I believe I know a pair with experience in these matters - “

* * *

 

The evening is falling into night; purple streaks are deepening into the first coils of black, revealing shots of white stardust in the sky. One dark shadow on the grounds makes a notable blot against this backdrop – Temeraire, difficult to see in the night, evidently not yet prepared to find the safety of his Pavilion. Laurence rests his hand briefly against the window before returning to his chair.

Tharkay sits opposite him with a glass of wine. “One thing I do not miss about nights on the road,” he comments, with a slight jerk of his head toward the fire, “is the cold – though the drafts in this old place can sometimes trick the mind,” he notes wryly.

Perhaps it is the fire, or the wine, that makes Laurence ask, “What would you most like to do if we were to travel again?”

Tharkay says nothing for a moment. “Do you know that I have no mementos,” he says. “ - I have been to more countries than I can count – more than I can likely remember, including several places of uncertain boundaries and names – and yet I have nearly nothing to show for it. I have rooms to fill in this house now.”

Laurence considers this. “What would you fill them with?”

“Perhaps... rocks.”

This is not quite the answer he was expecting. “Rocks," he repeats.

Tharkay smiles a little. “You would be astonished, Will, at how many varieties of rocks exist – how different they are from one place to another, and at different elevations. A rock can tell the history of a place. It would be a certain task, to catalog the rocks of every place I visit.”

“If you would enjoy it,” says Laurence doubtfully; but he remembers Tharkay tracking an egg through Australia, through thousands of miles of untouched land, inspecting the underbrush and the dirt. Well, what does Laurence know?

“It is hardly as though the house will suffer for my eccentricities,” Tharkay adds. “I have little doubt that Temeraire will accumulate enough riches to scandalize three households.”

Laurence laughs.

* * *

 

Laurence leaves Temeraire playing with his brother's five children, chatting cheerfully while they climb over his legs. It is odd to walk into Wollaton Hall and feel like a stranger again – odder, still, to think that he is so far from Tharkay, but the man had insisted on staying behind.

His brother's wife, Elizabeth, vanishes quickly after a perfunctory greeting; George seems strangely anxious.

“Perhaps the library,” he says. Lord Allendale always invited his sons into the library when he had bad news, as though the ability to gaze around at the book titles could somehow lessen a situation's awkwardness. Laurence only agrees.

Whatever the real reason for his invite – because clearly George has some purpose for inviting him to Nottinghamshire – he does not seem eager to divulge it. “I pray that you have been well,” he starts instead. “Your letters have started to become rare, Will.”

Laurence is aware that this is true. “We are all well – Temeraire has been learning a great deal for his new position. And so am I,” he adds, belatedly realizing he hasn't had the time to write George about his own new posting; he explains about the Foreign Office in Edingburgh, which distracts his brother for a moment.

“I am glad to hear it – very glad,” says George sincerely. “And perhaps that will help, somewhat...”

Laurence raises his eyebrows.

George tugs at his tie. “There is no good way to say it. There has been talk, Will.”

“Talk?” Laurence repeats blankly. He has not been appearing in society of late; unless it is his scarcity that has prompted censure, he can hardly imagine how he might be generating notice.

George clears his throat delicately. “It is known that you have moved away to live with – your particular friend - “ he starts, and understanding hits Laurence in a rush.

Mortification follows, but George continues before he can say anything:

“And of course I am glad for anything which brings you happiness in these days,” George says, determinedly not meeting his eye, “but there are – concerns... that is, Mr. Tharkay himself, you understand, is not well known - “

Laurence blinks slowly. George is clearly grasping; Tharkay's lack of interest in society can hardly be the worst of anyone's concern about this situation. “In good fairness to Mr. Tharkay,” he finds himself saying, “Since the festivities celebrating the war's end few people have reached out to either of us regarding any social gatherings.”

George pounces on the topic. “Then Elizabeth and I shall certainly host you both at our next dinner, in July,” which is next month. “I will not hear otherwise.”

Laurence, fumbling, can only manage a confused agreement before George makes his goodbyes. Laurence stares after him a long while before going outside to find Temeraire.

The dragon is resting near the stables and seems to have attracted company. Two light-weights are lying on top of his bulk and grumble when he sits up. “Laurence? Did something happen?”

Laurence is not unfamiliar, of course, with the sort of relationship to which his brother alluded. His early years in the navy exposed him to such things, seen and heard by rumor and through the sort of tacit gestures which other men properly ignored. More recently he has been confronted with overt examples; even now Captain Granby and Captain Little are posted together. They sent him a joint letter from Spain not so long ago.

But he still finds an explanation hard to articulate. Under Temeraire's anxious eyes he says at last, slowly, “George thinks I am a kept woman.”

Temeraire considers this. “You are not a woman.”

“I do not think that matters precisely,” Laurence replies. “ - Pray let us go on to London, dear. This day has been entirely confounding already.”

* * *

 

After his conversation with George the last thing Laurence wants to do is speak with Perscitia on a matter which seems so suddenly and uncomfortably close; naturally, she takes no heed whatsoever of his discomfort.

“ - And you can be sure,” she continues, “That I have written to the good Captain Granby for his expert opinion on the whole thing - “ Laurence closes his eyes, makes a mental apology to the man, and resolves to write a letter as soon as he returns home.

Perscitia has built herself a Pavilion outside Dover, like many of the dragons, but with her increasing forays into London she has evidently seen the need for a second. Laurence is somehow entirely unsurprised that the Duke of Wellington has connived to get her a placement in Hyde Park just across from his own townhouse. That, he thinks, must be a combination to terrify all of their political rivals.

Temeraire himself is less than impressed with the Pavilion – it is far too small for him, so they are all discussing the current issue on the grounds.

“Poor Bellusa seemed very disinclined to breed when I was in Pen Y Fan. And I quite understand _why,_ if she did not enjoy it at all,” Temeraire says. “It is one thing to be awkward about the whole business, and if someone should say, 'No, I don't feel like that today', I do not think anyone should argue that two dragons should have to breed, except maybe that great lout Lloyd; so it seems very awful to me that people will say someone should do something they dislike, such as mating where it is not wanted, only for silly notions like propriety.” Temeraire feels apparently obliged to add, “At the time, I only thought Bellusa was embarrassed about her gift. Or felt she was not splendid enough for me.”

“Of course it is not just a problem of dragons,” Perscitia continues. “That is the thing; I do not think anyone _really_ cares what two dragons do, or three or four - “ Laurence tries not to follow that train of thought, “ - but humans are oddly preoccupied about what _other_ humans do, and they think it will start a precedent if they say we may have rights that they cannot have.”

“Rather they think people will argue for the same rights,” Laurence corrects.

“But that is precisely the thing – I do not see why people should _not,”_ Perscitia says. “This entire matter with Parliament would be much easier if only we had more support; and human support means much more than ours at this juncture, you know. There are far too many of you, it makes voting uneven,” she adds severely.

Laurence cannot think how to explain that finding _public support_ for legalizing, perhaps recognizing, same-sex relations is less than likely; it would be political suicide for anyone who tried to support them. Only the King himself would have enough influence for the task – and maybe not even him.

“It seems to me,” Temeraire says, “That there must be some of these inverts in Parliament, or among the military, who would be willing to help us. I mean people who can really persuade others. Surely that would be a great help, if only we could prove that it is no terrible thing to be with someone you like, instead of someone society approves of.”

“Such people exist,” Laurence says; it is foolish to say otherwise. “But they will not help you.”

“I do not understand humans at all,” Perscitia says.

“I am quite certain of one thing – I am not going to let anyone hurt Bellusa or Minnow or our other friends,” Temeraire adds. “And certainly not over such a ridiculous thing as this!”

* * *

 

Perhaps belatedly Laurence sends off his own letter to Granby, by courier, speaking of the problem in the vaguest terms possible. He expects no particular response, but neither can he express his confusion on this particular issue to his other associates without some expectation of reproach. Apparently several local papers have featured the issue, discussing it as a problem of 'public values', which he finds difficult to understand. But then he supposes it is odd that anyone be concerned about the private lives of men or women, either.

He returns to the Foreign Office on Monday.

He is late, which is not his fault. Temeraire was waylaid by an excitable Greyling who begged their help in moving a series of overturned wagons, and they lost yet more time when Laurence naturally helped the travelers into the city. It is nearly two hours past his hour of arrival when he walks up the path to the office only to be waylaid by a familiar face:

“Mr. Laurence!” Natasza cries. “How very good to see you: I am suing,” she adds.

Laurence pauses with his foot hovering on the steps to the Office. “Well,” he says.

“Not you,” she corrects to his great relief. He does not particularly _think_ he has done anything worth legal action, but in recent years this has not seemed to stop anyone. “Those solicitors you recommended are marvelous. I just came,” she tells him, with a bit of mischief, “To brag about the whole thing to your Office. I couldn't resist.”

“I wish you the best of luck, Madam.”

She smiles. “Are you not late? You're working with the Japanese delegation, aren't you? I saw your books – and they're inside,” she adds.

Laurence starts. “The Japanese?”

“Oh, yes – that rude man, Longstaff, he was talking with them.”

“Thank you,” Laurence says, and she nods as he moves past.

The clerk looks alarmed when he walks by. A small group of men are standing in Longstaff's Office, the doors thrown wide open.

“ - His Majesty Prince Laurence has heard your concerns, and would repeat that this stance will be reconsidered only once Japan has reciprocated, Mr. Tsukada.”

Laurence walks up behind the group.

“If more ports were opened to England we will both benefit, you must agree. You know of course that the _Chinese_ have found our trade very beneficial...”

“Mr. Longstaff,” Laurence says, speaking over several heads.

He has never seen a man pale so rapidly.

“Mr. Laurence!” Longstaff yelps. The Japenese men turn around.

“I would be interested to know when I have heard any of these concerns you mentioned – I must have forgotten them all,” Laurence says. Longstaff gapes at him. Laurence turns toward the nearest delegates. “I am afraid, Sirs, that I cannot speak for anything that the King's government – or, more accurately, Mr. Longstaff here – has been telling you. In fact it may be relevant to inform you that I am resigning from my post immediately. Good-day.”

“Mr. Laurence!” Longstaff insists.

Laurence has no idea where to find Temeraire at this hour. But he hasn't seen much of Edinburgh, and now seems like a good time.

* * *

 

“Somehow I am unsurprised,” Tharkay says. “But I am sorry nonetheless.”

Laurence just nods and accepts the glass pressed into his hand. Tharkay watches him across the parlor's table.

“Quite honestly,” Laurence admits after a moment, “I am not at all good at speaking Japanese.”

“I would honestly have been surprised otherwise,” Tharkay replies dryly.

Laurence has grown perfectly content with his life – and that is something he might have marveled at only a few short years back. It seems greedy, almost, to expect more, to tempt more.

He sets down the glass.

“I thought to hang the sketch you made last week,” he says. “From when we sat outside, you remember... But I realized I could not.”

“I do not make a habit of art,” Tharkay admits.

“That is not why.” Laurence pauses. “It seemed – indecent. To put it in the hall. It seems like a private thing.”

Tharkay looks at him for a moment.

“You could still hang it,” he says at last.

“You have always been a part of us,” Laurence says. “And perhaps I was the one unable to understand it.”

“ _I_ have never needed a picture to see, Will,” Tharkay says.

Laurence tugs at his tie; perhaps he has been too bold. He stands abruptly. “I am sorry,” he says. Tharkay stands as well. “I should not have presumed – that is – perhaps it was a mistake - “

Tharkay grabs his wrist. “Will,” he says firmly. “I will not be so patient if I must follow you around the world _another_ five years before you have an epiphany.”

That seems a bit unfair. “If you have one first, I suggest you say so in the future,” Laurence sighs, wrapping his arms around Tharkay's shoulders.

Tharkay stares. “Yes,” he says at last. “Perhaps I will do that, after all.”

* * *

 

It seems surprising that so many people care about the private lives of two dragons. The dragons themselves, Laurence is sure, would not have thought twice about their mating. He is somehow recalled to an old conversation on the _Allegiance,_ the thoughtful words of Mr. Erasmus: dragons do not have original sin.

But that is not the argument to take, he realizes, not quite. By any standards he cannot fathom what wrong was committed.

Laurence receives a letter from Granby on just the subject. _The poor girls are probably more Baffled than ever by humans; you will forgive me my indecency in reminding you, I perfectly Understand. All this fuss is ridiculous, Will, and yet it must come to some conclusion now that the point is raised. I cannot imagine the country's dragons bowing down again. They are getting fond of freedom._

_I am damn glad to be still fighting; can I say that? Letting Iskierka at the enemy will be easier than Temeraire's battle in Parliament, I think..._

* * *

 

“It is all based on your god,” Temeraire says. “God says this, and god says that – if this 'god' person will not come down from his place in the clouds to _talk,_ or at least send a decent representative, I do not see why I should listen to him in the least, Laurence. I have read that bible thing and it was no help whatsoever.”

“I believe there are representatives,” Laurence says. “They are called priests.”

“And they do not agree on _anything,”_ Temeraire grouches.

“It is your job to make them agree, my dear. I fear they are quite influential despite your reservations. You may need their support.”

Temeraire sighs loudly, his claws scraping the dirt. His tail flops dramatically against the hard-packed dirt. Nearby birds rise from their trees shrieking in protest. “Politics are difficult,” he says.

“You are more courageous than I, to tackle that challenge,” says a voice. They turn to see Tharkay coming up the hill.

“You are quite courageous yourself,” Temeraire says generously. “And I do not believe I can blame anyone for not wanting to talk to Government.”

“You _are_ Government now,” Tharkay says, now sincerely amused. He draws up beside Laurence, turns, and touches his arm. He takes Laurence's elbow in hand and brushes a kiss against his cheek.

Laurence does not react. He can feel his face flushing, his heart beating against his ears. Tharkay pauses. “If I misunderstood yesterday,” he begins.

“You did not,” Laurence says, and clears his throat. “It is only – it is of course illegal,” he protests lamely.

“Good god, as if you have done nothing else illegal,” Tharkay complains. Laurence winces. “Forget society for once in your life, Will. I could have pursued my father's lands at any time, you know; I pressed the case these past few years only because I hoped I might have a reason to stay in England.”

Laurence exhales. Temeraire looks between them with growing interest.

“There is nothing more important to me than... and anyway, England has been no friend to us. If the laws are nonsense, as we know they are, why should we follow them?”

This, Laurence thinks, is certainly a fine thing to say in front of a member of Parliament.

Although - Laurence pauses. Looks at Tharkay. “Or,” he says.

“No,” Tharkay says.

“Temeraire did mention that a symbol - “

Tharkay pulls away and rubs his head against his hand. “Do you seek out hopeless causes deliberately?”

Laurence catches his hand. “Tenzing,” he says quietly.

“...If you are so committed, we will change the laws. But we are not hosting any balls at the manor.”

* * *

 

They accept George's invitation to dine at Wollaton Hall.

His brother writes back in a missive that cannot hide the man's relief; Laurence has now been utterly absent from all social functions for months, and Tenzing, even more select in his friends, has not let himself be dragged out since the celebrations after Napoleon's defeat. A handsome canopy has been erected on the ground for dragons, and Laurence is somewhat touched to see the half-finished work of a large, communal Pavilion in progress. George has not mentioned it in his letters, but Temeraire makes pleased noises over its function, and the whole thing is clearly meant as a gesture.

It almost makes Laurence regret what he's about to do.

George opens the door personally when they arrive to Wollaton Hall, likely alerted by the shadow of Temeraire overhead; Lady Allendale is outside receiving the dragons, and half the party is on the lawn. “Will, Tenzing - “ he gets a good look at them.

“George,” Laurence says. “Thank you for having us.”

George's smile turns a bit brittle. “You're going to cause a scene, aren't you?” he asks.

Laurence is wearing his blue coat; for this event he is nearly under-dressed, but the occasion seemed fitting, and even Temeraire agreed. But George is looking at his arm, linked closely and deliberately with Tharkay's.

“Scotland gets very boring,” Tharkay deadpans.

George sighs loudly. “Let me head off Mother,” he says. “And get Mr. Antwil drunk first, please. He will only cause a scene. Then do whatever you like.” He vanishes into the main hall. Through the door light streams out and distant echoes of laughter drift through the opening.

“There would always be rumors,” Tharkay says. “But you are certain of this?”

Laurence looks back at the doorway. “I think we have been cautious for far, far too long.”

Tharkay nods. And, together, they step through.

 


End file.
